Hazards of Parenthood
by Lunasariel
Summary: Originally titled: Socrates the Rat, Exploding Powder Boxes, And Other Hazards of Parenthood. Cut down because of this dumb site. Anyway: the Changy kids, fifteenyearold Angelique and elevenyearold Devon, get involved in the old battle. RC FOREVER!
1. In Which Meg Is Uncomfortable

_A/N: Hello again, all! Welcome back to my world. I'm glad that everyone liked my first story so much, especially Kchan88, leotabelle13, torch baby, GerryLover15, and Daisy Diva, who have been some of my most helpful reviewers from the first, plus everyone else who left a review (I do love the long responses, by the way). Especially Daisy Diva, for her Carlotta chapter. Oh, and kudos to Glitter Queen of the Ice Show for becoming an R/C shipper. Also, a shout-out to Emma and Anri who came in a little late, but who left thoughtful and intelligent comments, nonetheless. I probably forgot a whole bunch of people I meant to mention, but didn't (I have a notoriously bad memory). To all of you people: you rock!_

_This is my first attempt at an actual phic with a plot, a narration, and stuff, so tell me whether I should keep going with this, or stick to letters and such. I won't be offended if you tell me my strengths lay elsewhere, I promise. Just be honest._

_Enough chit-chat. On with the phic!_

**Please see my bio page for disclaimer.**

Meg Giry stood by the curb in front of the newly-refurbished Opera Populaire, dancing from foot to foot with nervousness and chill on the brisk September morning, looking this way and that, up and down the crowded boulevard. She was wearing a very fashionable outfit gown, but apparently "fashionable" wasn't nearly the same thing as "comfortable." She itched, couldn't breathe, and was freezing, even in the comparatively mild fall air.

It was a pretty bad time for her to leave her job, what with preparing for the annual Christmas gala, which was attended by everyone who was anyone, including the emperor, Napoleon III. Still, it was her birthday, and Christine had invited her out to the Vicomtesse's palatial manor, for a day of riding and picnicking. Madame Giry, still in charge of the ballet corps, insisted she go.

Finally, a fine carriage drew up, drawn by two lovely matching bays, and driven by a rather elderly footman in livery, who hopped down and opened the door for the ballerina, touching his hat respectfully as he closed it after. "Thank you, Mr. Weatherby," Meg murmured in slight embarrassment. She was used to doing the waiting, not being waited upon.

"No problem, Miss Giry. My, but you're all done up today. Goin' pickernickin' with 'er Ladyship, are ye?" The footman called back cheerfully his strong Cockney accent making the French nearly illegible, as he swung himself up onto the seat, shook the reins, and clucked at the horses.

It had taken Meg months to learn to understand the de Changy's two elderly servants, who both came straight from England. They had worked for the old Comte Philbet, Raoul's father, and were in charge of the hiring and dismissal of other servants. Because they trusted hardly any "young folks," there was a perpetual staffing shortage in the de Changy household.

"I'm hoping to. Do you know a good spot this time of year?" she replied, raising her voice slightly to be heard above the wind generated by the carriage.

"If I were you ladies, I'd go down across the pastures, right into the creek and that nice little grove of walnuts…" Mr. Weatherby said, turning his head so that her Ladyship's friend would be able to catch his words.

Carrying on chatting in this manner, they left Paris and were soon out on country roads. Meg took a deep breath of fresh air, sighing happily as the passed orchards with fruit half-ripened, plowmen sharpening their tools, and farmwives hanging out the homespun washing to dry in the breeze.

Slowly, a mansion drew into sight. It was quite modest, as mansions go, but it still left Meg with a slight sense of awe as they drew up the long, sloping driveway. Most of the bay windows were open, for airing.

They pulled up to the door. Mr. Weatherby leapt down with an agility that belied his seventy-three years, and opened the door for Miss Giry, bowing deferentially.

Just as Meg stepped down, there was a muffled "BOOM!" that rocked the carriage slightly, and dense, acrid smoke poured out of one of the windows.

_A/N: ooh, starting out with a cliffhanger! I'm so evil ;). Anyway, tell me what you think! Thanks again to the people who left the 146 reviews._


	2. In Which We Meet The Offspring

_A/N: Hi, there. I must say, I am disappointed. 21 hits, and only seven reviews. Anyway, chapters should be getting longer from here on out, but I'm afraid they probably will never reach epic length._

_OK, if you are R/C, and can take a little disgusting-ness, visit the Phantom Phan Guild on There is a thread there called "101 Ways to Kill Raoul." If you can handle it, go check it out, and yell at the phanbrats for being sadistic! When I saw it, I was truly shocked and disgusted, by more than numerous suggestions to kill our dear Vicomte with a butter knife or rip his skin off with giant earring hooks. Most of them apparently don't realize that they would have maybe a dozen teenage girls versus a twenty-something, probably armed, Navy soldier. _

**Please see bio page for disclaimer.**

"DEVON, YOU LITTLE TOAD!" a female voice screeched. Meg blew out an exasperated sigh, and Mr. Weatherby rolled his eyes.

"I swear, that boy is goin' ta be th' death of his poor sister," the Englishman muttered as they hurried up the steps.

When they entered the sumptuous foyer, the first thing they saw was a soot-faced teenage girl flying down the grand staircase. The lovely golden hair, just the same color as her mother's, that she was so proud of, was singed and filthy, as well as covered in the white powder ladies of that age used on their complexions. She was in hot pursuit of a yelling boy.

Raoul de Changy strolled out of the study to the left of the grand staircase, caught sight of the fleeing children, and dashed to intercept them.

"What did you do now, Devon?" Raoul asked wearily, nonchalantly collaring his son and daughter inches from freedom.

"HE BOOBY-TRAPPED MY POWDER BOX, DADDY!" Angelique de Changy, the soot-faced, 15-year-old daughter of Raoul and Christine shrieked, glaring balefully at all and sundry. Meg winced. Angelique didn't have an ugly voice, but she hadn't inherited her mother's angelic tones, and she had quite a piercing yell when she worked at it.

"It was my birthday present for Mama!" shot back Devon, Angelique's 11-year-old brother.

"Your birthday present to Mama was shell-shocking your sister and blowing up her powder box?" Raoul asked wearily.

"I perfected my new shell," Devon said sullenly. "I found a way to detonate it from another room, and I sure didn't want to blow up anything else."

"Angel, are you hurt?" Meg asked, stepping forward, using Angelique's "normal" name. The official rule was that if any of Devon's many explosive devices hurt anybody beyond shell-shock and minor bumps and scrapes, he was banned from going near gunpowder for two months. Surprisingly, this rule seldom had to be enforced. The boy's little bombs seldom did more that flash, bang, and leave an impressive cloud of smoke and ash. In this case, it had also caused a flurry of face powder.

"No, Auntie Meg," Angelique said absently, still glaring at Devon.

"Good," Raoul said. "Devon, you have to clean up the mess you made, and pay for anything that was broken."

"What was broken! What happened?" Christine cried, flying through another door, dressed for riding. "I was outside when I heard something explode," she explained.

Angelique launched into an injured-sounding explanation, while Devon loudly protested his innocence, and Mr. Wetherby added his two cents.

"Mother, I wasn't doing _anything_, just sitting there, and then Devon goes and blows up my powder box! Now look at me!"

"But Mama, I wanted to show you my new shell for your birthday! It wasn't my fault dumb ol' Angel opened her dumb ol' powder box too soon!"

"Beggin' yer pardon, Yer Ladyship, but yer GOTS ter do summat about that boy! It's a wonder he ain't blown someone to bits!"

Meg just watched and smiled. Another nice, normal afternoon in the de Changy household.

The smile of contentment turned to a shriek of horror as a rat scuttled between the younger Giry's skirts on its way to Angelique. Everybody whipped around to look.

"Socrates! You know you aren't supposed to be out when there's company, naughty boy! You are Mommy's sweet little bunnykins, aren't you?" Angelique crooned, scooping up the squealing vermin as though it were a kitten. Devon made a gagging noise. It has to be noted that it was very well-groomed vermin, with no fleas, trimmed, clean fur, and well-kept claws and fangs. Even if Angelique did have some rather…unusual… pets, she kept them all housetrained, clean, and well-mannered (for the most part). Raoul dropped his face into his hands.

"Angel, I thought I told you to get rid of that rat," he said, even more tiredly, from between his hands.

"Christine, hadn't we better go?" Meg inquired tactfully. "Mr. Wetherby says that he knows a wonderful spot for picnicking."

"Indeed I does, Yer Ladyship. I've taken me own lunch there many a time," the elderly servitor said, jumping at the chance. He led the two women out.

The last thing Meg saw when she left was Raoul ordering the Devon to get cleaning, and threatening to drown Socrates the rat if he ever got loose when there was company again.

Mr. Wetherby's "pickernickin' " spot turned out to be every bit as peaceful and relaxing as he said. Meg and Christine reclined, daydreaming silently, on the grassy bank of a small, clear rivulet, under the spreading leaves of walnuts.

"What's it like?" Meg asked suddenly.

"Hmm?" Christine replied, languidly turning her head to face her best friend, eyes half-open.

"Having a family. Children. I know I should go mad within hours."

"I've felt the same, at times. When one of Devon's early bombs blew out half of his room, and all he could talk about was how fascinating it had been, for one."

"I remember that. He was, what, eight?"

"Eight and a half. Or whenever Angel brings home an injured wolf or whatever animal happens to cross her path. Once she tried hiding a bear in the stable. It nearly took a chunk out of Raoul when he went to go get it out."

"That's a new one. How long ago was it?"

"Last month." A slightly accusing tone entered Christine's voice.

"That was a while ago, I know. I'm sorry. It's just that we're all so busy down at the Opera. Did you know that the Emperor himself is going to attend this year's Christmas gala?"

"How wonderful! Madame Giry must be working you all to death, though." Now the Vicomtesse's voice was wistful.

"You miss it, don't you?" Meg asked suddenly. "You miss working at the Opera Populaire and singing."

"Well, I wouldn't trade my life right now for the world, but sometimes,… yes, I do miss it."

"Maybe you could come back and sing for us," Meg teased gently. "I don't think we have a leading lady yet, and we're doing _Faust_."

"Oh, Meg, you know I can't. Maybe all of us will come and watch, though."

"I hope to see you there."

They looked at each other for a moment, both stymied for words.

At that moment, Mr. Wetherby, who had been checking the soundness of the surrounding fences, came crashing back. "You ladies done eatin'? Wonderful! We'll be back in time for supper. Miss Giry, I hope you'll be stayin'? The missus said she was goin' ta make roly-poly pudding," he said enticingly. Meg smiled. She hadn't the faintest idea what roly-poly pudding was.

"I would love to," she said happily.

_A/N: so drop me a line, tell me what you think._

C. Pitney: THANK YOU SOOO MUCH! I do love those in-depth analysises. I actually do do the "visualizing" thing in my head, but thanks for mentioning it. Hmm, I never thought about the name "Weatherby" being predictable. Have to work on that point.

Phantomfreak07: Glad you liked "Letters."

Leotabelle13: MUAHAHAHA! I see at least a few more cliffhangers in your future. cackles R/C does indeed rock.

Daisy Diva: Yay! Another R/C Shipper! Carlotta is coming either next chapter or the one after.

Torch baby: "Fashionable wasn't the same as comfortable" never changes. Have you seen those girls tottering around in those bikini-style "Naughty Santa" costumes in December?

Nota Lone: The Raoulists thank you for your support. Although pickernicking season is over, it was fun while it lasted.

Phantom Hamster: Welcome back. Thanks for the vote of confidence.


	3. In Which Denis Drops the Bomb

_A/N: wow, this is less popular than I thought. Oh, well. I still have a few loyal reviewers out there sniff Anyway… done being depressed now. Lalalala. Feel free to leave a review._

_Just thought I'd mention something that I apparently made too subtle. You know how Christine thought Erik was an Angel (of Music) and then a Phantom (or devil). The kids' names are ANGELique and DEVON (whey you say it out loud, it sounds like "devil")._

_On with the show!_

**Please see bio page for normal disclaimer.**

**Extra disclaimer: I am not a historian. I know the Emperor at the time was Napoleon III from reading the POTO script. I don't know whether he was crazy, or not. It just works.**

Raoul felt like he was in charge of a gang of three-year olds. Devie (he HATED it when people called him that) had a couple of friends over, and so they had been permitted to eat in the kitchen, so the sounds of a just-beginning food fight were clearly audible. He would have to do something about that, and soon. Angel was sulking because of the powder box incident, and her silence was worse than her normal incessant chattering. No matter, Meg and Christine were doing more than enough chattering to make up for it. Fashions, who at the Opera House was "seeing" whom, and more. What females saw in this nattering was far beyond him.

"What's this?" Meg asked curiously, poking at the steaming mass on her plate. Mrs. Wetherby, Mr. Wetherby's wife and the cook and housekeeper, mostly fixed English food. "No one lives off snails and frogs' legs if I have anything to say about it," were her watchwords.

"Why, that'd be the best bangers'n'mash outside o' London, dearie," Mrs. Wetherby called kindly from the pantry. The poor furrin girl couldn't be expected to know much about real food, the poor dear. Frogs' legs and snails indeed!

Meg cautiously took a bite, and made a rather odd face, one that clearly denoted, "What on earth did I just eat!"

Fortunately, she was saved from anybody noticing her look (the others seemed to be taking it without complaint) by a glob of mash sailed out of the adjacent kitchen, and struck Raoul squarely in the forehead. Christine sucked in a breath, and silence suddenly fell.

The vicomte got up slowly, mopped his face with his napkin, and strode into the kitchen. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively soft. "Devon Philippe de Changy, go up to your room. Mr. Wetherby, if you could clean this up, please. The rest of you, home. Now." A shamefaced parade of adolescents filed out. They all lived in the area, so getting home wasn't a problem.

Raoul went upstairs grimly, and conversation resumed.

"So you're doing Faust again, Meg? Any idea who'll be playing the lead?" Christine asked tactfully.

"Mmm. We've got a new Spaniard who's supposed to be good for Faust, and Carlotta will probably play Margaret."

"That old cow is still singing? Has she started seeing anyone else after Piangi…"

"Unfortunately, yes to the first, no to the second. The managers are thinking of retiring her soon, though."

Christine was just about to reply when the doorbell rang. Mrs. Wetherby ran to answer it. He was met by a liveried messenger of some sort, all done up in royal purple of the best cloth, with gold braid and epaulets, everything.

"Is Messuir de Changy at home?" the messenger inquired snootily, looking down his long French nose at the humble Englishman

"H-he is. Can I tell him who's come ta call?" stammered Mr. Wetherby.

"An emissary of His Majesty, Emperor Napoleon III. And I shall need to see his lady wife as well, if you please," said the messenger. Mr. Wetherby gawked. _A message from the Emperor!_ He made an abrupt about-face and nearly fled up the stairs.

He found Raoul in his study, going over some document or other.

"There's someone here ta see you," Mr. Wetherby said, as causally as possible.

"Unless it's the Emperor, I'm busy," Raoul said. Devon's food fight had put him in a foul mood, and muffled explosions could be heard coming from the boy's room.

"What about the Emperor's messenger?" M. Wetherby inquired tactfully.

"That might be different. Send him into the drawing room, and get Christine. I'll be down shortly." Raoul rapped out his orders, and turned to the mirror that hung on his wall to straighten his coat and make sure that all trace of bangers'n'mash had been removed.

Christine sat nervously in the drawing room, trying not to fidget. Mr. Wetherby had grandly announced that His Lordship would be down presently. That meant about five or ten minutes, she guessed. Christine had had no time to even comb her hair or straighten her dress. She felt incredibly countrified and frumpy, faced with this done-up Paris dandy. She could almost hear Madame Giry, back at the Opera Populaire. "Some people need lots of pretty clothes to hide an ugly little heart." Of course, she had been speaking about a certain Italian soprano at the time, but all the same… The thought brought a small smile to the Vicomtesse's lips.

"Tell me, Madame de Changy, have you sung at all since your marriage?" the dandy-ish footman asked suddenly. He had apparently been thinking for quite some time.

"Not professionally, no," Christine said, taken aback by the abrupt question.

"If you had to, could you sing again?" he continued.

"I-I really don't know, Messuir…" she faltered.

"Bourgeoisie. Denis Bourgeoisie. How rude of me for not introducing myself," he said just as Raoul entered, looking important, and a tad apprehensive. One of the emperor's men didn't just stop by to say hello.

"Messuir Raoul de Changy, I presume? I am Denis Bourgeoisie, footman of His Majesty, Emperor Napoleon the Third," Bourgeoisie declared formally, rising and extending a manicured, lily-white hand. Raoul took it in his own sword-trained grip.

"Welcome to our home, Messuir. I trust you have already met my wife, Christine," Raoul said, seating himself and motioning for Bourgeoisie to do likewise.

"Actually, it's because of her that I came. Now you know that His Majesty is a man of… peculiar temperament?" Denis began, and Raoul nodded. It was a widely accepted fact that the Emperor was mad as a hatter. "And I hope you also know that he will also be attending the Opera Populaire's Christmas gala?" Another nod, this time from Christine. "Well, it seems that nothing would please His Majesty more than to have the legendary Christine Daae, pardon me, Christine de Changy, to be the leading lady. You are expected to attend rehearsal at ten o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. Refusal will not be accepted. Good day." And with that, Denis Bourgeoisie rose and marched out. The rumble of carriage wheels could be heard momentarily as he left. Raoul and Christine sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then Christine slumped in her chair, and Raoul ran his fingers through his hair.

"They can't expect me to just come back and sing like an angel after the fire, seventeen years, and two children!" Christine cried into her hands. Raoul walked over and gathered his distraught wife in his arms.

"I think you'll have to," he explained, as gently as possible. "From what I hear, saying 'no' to one of the Emperor's demands is like signing your own death warrant."

"So there's no way out at all?" she asked nervously.

"None at all," Raoul said mournfully.

"Wot was all tha' about?" Mrs. Wetherby asked as the white-faced Christine and brooding Raoul left the drawing room.

"'Er Ladyship has ta go back and sing at that opry 'ouse wot almost killed 'er an' Raoul last time," her husband replied, trepidation filling his voice.

Daisy Diva: Yes, Carlotta will make a cameo, probably in the next chapter or the one after. But be warned: she will be portrayed as the self-centered, screeching, but hilarious Webber/Schumacher Carlotta. I'll be gentle, I promise. If I need help, I'll be sure to ask.

Leotabelle13: The underlines were a stupid glitch. I hope I fixed them. As long as you're working on an R/C too, you will remain lynch-free cackles evilly R/C still does roc. Reviewers also roc (hint, hint).

Kchan88: "Interesting" is what I'm going for. Although, I was a little afraid of making Angel a mini-Carlotta. Don't get me wrong, Carlotta's ok, but two of her? Eek. Your confidence in me always keeps me going. corny music Stay sweet. R/C forever!

Torch baby: YEA FOR COMFY CLOTHES! Actually, I based Angel loosely off my best friend, and Devon very closely off my little brother. Aww… more reviews would be nice, but such is the way of fanfiction.


	4. In Which Christine is Nervous

_A/N: Sorry about the long wait, folks. I am now officially active in three fandoms (POTO, Lord of the Rings, and Master & Commander), with a fourth (Scarlet Pimpernel) coming soon. _

_I just thought I'd whip this off between volleys of relatives. Happy Yule or Christmas or Chanukah or whatever!_

**Please see bio page for disclaimer.**

The next morning, Christine was ready shortly after daybreak, and slipped silently downstairs, leaving Raoul still asleep. Her destination was the small music room that held Raoul's and Devon's violins (one old and much-used, the other gathering dust), Angelique's harp, and a sweet-toned piano, along with many other pieces of musical paraphernalia. Christine sat down at the piano, and began warming up softly. As her disused singing voice came back into play, she relaxed, even began tapping her foot to keep time. By the time Mrs. Wetherby came to get her for breakfast, she was happily running through what she could remember of _Faust_, swaying back and forth.

She ate breakfast normally enough, swallowing a bowl of porridge in between ordering Angelique to get Socrates of the table and out of her food and assuring Meg, who had stayed the night, that the rat was totally harmless.

"We'd best be goin', if we wants ta get there on time," Mr. Wetherby said, already dressed in his coachman's uniform.

"Very well. Christine, Meg, are you ready?" Raoul asked, pushing himself back from the table and getting up.

"I'll wait in the carriage," Meg said, and hurried out.

"Goodbye, Devie," she said fondly, kissing Devon on top of his sandy head. He endured it with a screwed-up face, and scrubbed furiously at his hair afterward.

"Be good, sweetheart," she whispered to Angelique, a tear or two misting her eyes.

"See you this evening, Mama," Angelique said, giving her mother a weird look.

"Of course you will," Christine said distractedly, then she and Raoul left, leaving a sudden emptiness behind.

"Something's up," Devon whispered to his sister, while Mrs. Wetherby cleared the dishes, dropping two or three. Muttering to herself, she went to fetch a broom and dustpan.

"Of course something's up. Mama called me 'sweetheart,' Papa hasn't let her out of his sight, and Mrs. Wetherby is nervous," Angelique returned softly as the children scurried out of the room.

They ended up in Devon's newly cleaned room, hiding below the windowsill and watching the carriage pull out of sight.

"So Papa is pretty worried, Mama is acting definitely odd, and Auntie Meg is antsy," Devon mused.

"Why do you say Papa is worried? He looked pretty normal to me," Angelique argued.

"He looked like that time I went to the hospital after that one bomb blew out half my room," the eleven-year old said.

"Shut up, I've got an idea," Angelique said abruptly.

"That's a first," Devon muttered, but kept quiet after that.

"I've got it!" the teenager cried after a little thought. "She's afraid of the Opera Ghost!"

Devon made a disbelieving noise. "That's only one of Mama's fairy tales, idiot. Besides, he's supposed to be dead, remember?"

They had been told that Christine and Raoul had met as children, fallen in love, and married when the Opera House was destroyed in a "freak accident." All they knew of Erik was a series of fairy tales concerning the exploits of the supposedly fictional Opera Ghost, who was supposed to have been killed by a courageous singer.

"Oh, yes," Angelique said then fell silent, stymied for ideas. Her silence was broken a few minutes later by a frantic squeaking, the crash of dishes breaking, and Mrs. Wetherby yelling "STUPID BLOODY VERMIN!" Angel went downstairs to atone for her pet's crimes, but Devon sat at the window for a little while, pondering the Opera Ghost and his parents' marital history. This got boring after a while, so he set to work with gunpowder, springs, and another of his sister's powder boxes.

Christine shifted nervously in her seat as the carriage rumbled through the streets of Paris.

She was excited to see how Andre and Firmin had refurbished the Opera Populaire, but still… Christine looked down, lost in memories of an Angel and a Phantom.

Raoul smiled at her and took her hand, and hummed the first few bars of their song. Christine smiled and relaxed a bit, remembering that snowy night on the roof.

"We're 'ere, sir, ma'am," Mr. Wetherby called back from the driver's seat as they pulled up in from of the new opera house.

"Good God," Raoul muttered, and Christine looked horror-struck. The fine, old Gothic building she remembered so fondly had been distorted almost beyond recognition. Every possible surface blazed with gold leaf, and superfluous spires, sculptures, and turrets abounded. There was even a garish minaret or two stuck haphazardly on.

"Who knows what the inside will look like?" Christine wondered as Mr. Wetherby officiously opened her door. Raoul helped her out.

"You don't want to know," Meg replied sadly, getting out after her.

"You're sure you don't want me to come with you?" Raoul asked for what seemed the hundredth time.

"No, I'll be fine. Really," she said, trying to reassure herself as much as him.

"Good luck, angel," he whispered as she left. Mr. Wetherby beamed proudly. She was a good, plucky gel; she'd be all right.

She smiled, kissed Raoul on the cheek, and swept into the Grand Foyer with as much confidence as she could muster.

It wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. There were more curlicues on the stairs and a few more nudes than necessary, but essentially the same. "This isn't so bad," she commented with relief as they hurried towards the theater itself.

"You haven't seen the half of it. Brace yourself," Meg said, and opened the door. They were engulfed in a blaze of gold. Everything had gold on it somewhere; the seats were covered in cloth-of-gold, the carpet was golden, and the heavy brocade drapes for the boxes were embroidered with gold thread. On the other hand, the showy fresco on the ceiling depicted the four Seasons as voluptuous, scantily clad women frisking around the horned Pan and simpering outrageously.

"Ye gods," Christine murmured.

"You get used to it, in time," Meg said, and led her up to the stage.

"Ah! The great Madame de Changy has graced us with her presence," a sarcastic female voice blared from the stage. "Do you know what time it is, madmoiselle?" Carlotta Gudicelli demanded.

"Ten-fifteen, Madame Gudicelli. I apologize for my lateness." Christine stated, ascending to the stage itself.

"Don't let it happen again, Marguerite. Are you ready to begin?" M. Reyer demanded abruptly, shoving a script into her hands. She had forgotten the conductor's way of addressing everybody by his or her character's name.

"Ready when you are, maestro. Where is Faust?" she said civilly as yelling broke out backstage. An intense-looking Spaniard strode on, dressed as Faust.

"Where is my Marguerite?" he demanded in a slightly accented tenor. He was tall and slender, with olive skin, midnight-black hair, and flashing black eyes. She couldn't help noticing how full and red his lips were when they parted to reveal even, white teeth.

"Christine de Changy, senor," she said, putting on her best stage smile and extending a hand.

"Carlos Martinez. An honor, senorita," he purred, bending low to kiss her hand. In spite of herself, Christine giggled and blushed like a chorus girl.

She was interrupted from her introduction by a familiar voice. "Out of the way, prima donna! Dancers coming through! Meg Giry, go get changed this minute," Madame Giry shouted, trotting out at the head of her ballerinas. She gave a thin smile and inclined her head, then went back to yelling at her girls. The formidable ballet mistress had a few more grey hairs and fine lines spiderwebbed from the corners of her eyes, but she still moved as vigorously and lithely as ever, and was just as quick to rap an imperfect dancer with her cane.

A long day of practice followed. Everybody besides her was practically ready, so she was whirled from the costumers to choreographers to M. Reyer while the others hung around. She found M. Martinez (who had asked her to call him Carlos) an enchanting and competent Faust, and the general opinion was that she would make a credible Marguerite.

Christine had been on edge all day, just waiting to see that death's head or hear maniacal laughter, but the rehearsal was routine. She was continually jumping at shadows, and Madame Giry actually had to hit her with her cane once to make her pay full attention.

At the end of an exhausting day, Christine waited outside with Carlos and Meg for her carriage. When it arrived, she collapsed into it gratefully, barely aware of Carlos' "Adios, Senorita Christine! I look forward to tomorrow!" or Raoul's muttered "stupid actors".

Raoul was about to ask her whether Erik had make himself known, when he felt a soft weight on his shoulder. Christine had fallen straight asleep after her nerve-wracking, thankfully phantom-free day.

_So I was wondering, should I continue with in-fic reviewer responses, or use the new e-mail thing, whatchacallit. Leave your vote along with a review, please._

C. Pitney: I looooove those long responses, I have to say again. It's nice to have someone to point out weaknesses as well as strengths. It's the only was any of us grow as writers. Stay sweet.

Phantom Hamster: I'm glad that not all E/C shippers are spittle-emitting maniacs. I guess some R/C shippers are like that too. I'm glad that everyone likes it.

Lindaleriel: Yes, I am on Gaia. Are you? I pride myself on stopping the horror that was the "101 Ways to Kill Raoul" thread. I haven't seen you though. What's your name over there? Also, we are the only Raoul-loving jurors on Star Sheep's Legally Fopped. We don't have a real good chance of winning, but it's a fight worth fighting.


End file.
